Knew not of Hector’s death, for none had come
To tell her of his stay without the walls.
She in the lofty palace sat retired
Within her chamber, working at the loom,--
Weaving a purple vest, with varied flowers
Embroidered.
But, as she her fair-haired maids
Enjoined to place upon the blazing fire
The spacious caldron, that the soothing bath
Might be for Hector ready when he came
Home from the battle, knowing not that he,
Betrayed by blue-eyed Pallas, bleeding lay
Beneath Achilles’ hand, she heard the sound
Of weeping and of wailing on the walls;
And her limbs trembled, and the shuttle fell
Upon the ground.
Then cried she to her maids:
“Come, quickly, follow me, that we may see
What thing has happened, for I surely heard
My mother’s voice. My heart within my breast
Bounds to my lips,--my knees are stiff with fear,--
And--oh! I dread some ill to Priam’s house.
Ah, me! I fear me much, great Peleus’ son
Has severed my brave Hector from the town,
And drives him to the plain; and soon his life
Will be the forfeit of his manly rage.
Never would he abide amid the crowd,
But must be ever foremost in the war,--
In valour without peer.”
She said, and flew
Forth from the palace, like a frenzied one,
With throbbing heart; and her maids followed her.
But when she reached the tower, amid the throng,
She stood upon the wall, and gazed around,
Until she saw her Hector dragged along
With foul dishonour by the prancing steeds
Towards the Grecian ships; and, at the sight,
Night, as of death, darkened her tearful eyes.
Swooning, she fell, and scattered in her fall
The ornaments that bound her captive hair,
Wondrous in beauty, band, and wreath, and veil,
And fillet, Golden Aphrodite’s gift,
What day brave Hector led Andromache
Forth from her father’s house, Eëtion.
Her sisters, who were nigh, with gentle care
Received her sinking form, and by her side
Waited in fear lest she should wake no more.
But when, at last, the parted life returned
And the full sense of misery, she wept
Among her kinsfolk, and, with choking sobs,
Called Hector’s name:
“Ah, wretched me! my Hector,
Surely a cruel fate has followed us
Since we were born,--thou, in this city, Troy,
In Priam’s palace,--I, in far-off Thebes,
Where Placus rears on high his woody crest,
The hapless daughter of a hapless king!
Oh! would that I had never seen the sun!
For now to Pluto’s dark and drear abode
Thou hast descended, leaving me alone,
A mournful widow in thy empty halls.
And he who was his hapless parents’ pride,
Our infant son, shall see thy face no more,
Nor ever more delight thy loving eyes,
Since thine are closed in death.
Unhappy boy!
If even he escape the Grecian sword,
Travail and woes must be henceforth his lot,
And stranger hands shall reap his father’s fields,--
The woful day of orphanage has made
His life all friendless and companionless,--
The constant prey of grief, upon his cheek
The tears shall never dry,--and he must beg
With suppliant mien bread from his father’s guests,
Scarce heeded, or, if heeded, poorly fed.
His pampered peer in age, whose ev’ry need
Both parents well supply, with cruel hands
Thrusting him from the feast, will rudely say:
‘Away! begone! thy father feasts not here.’
Then to his widowed mother, all in tears,
My boy will come, my sweet Astyanax,
Who, erstwhile, fondled on his father’s knee,
Shared in the choicest titbits of the board;
And when, at eve, his childish prattle ceased,
Lulled by his tender nurse, his little head
Reposed on downy pillow, and his cheek
Glowed with the silent pleasure of his heart.
Now is he doomed to pain, his father gone,
Whose valour won his name Astyanax,
‘The City’s King,’--for Hector was of Troy,
Its gates and lofty walls, the chief defence.
And thou, my Hector, liest all unclad
Far from thy kin, beside the high-prowed ships,--
Of ravenous dogs and coiling worms the prey,--
While in thy desert halls neglected lie
The soft, fair garments that were wrought for thee,
Alas! in vain, by hands that love had taught.
These now must only deck thy funeral pyre,
In mournful honour to thy cherished name--
The glory and the strength of fallen Troy.”
Thus spake she ’mid her tears, and, all around,
The listening chorus of her maidens wept.
THE BEACON LIGHT ANNOUNCING THE FALL OF TROY AT ARGOS.
(_From the Agamemnon of Æschylus, v. 255._)
CHORUS AND CLYTEMNESTRA.
CL.--Word of joy this morning brings
From the bosom of the night,
Higher joy than Hope’s gay wings
Circled in her farthest flight!
Troy is taken, Troy is fallen
By the victor Argive’s might!
CH.--Troy has fallen dost thou tell me?
Have I heard thy words aright?
CL.--Hearken! I repeat the words,--
Troy is held by Grecian lords.
CH.--Ah! what gladness fills my heart,
And my tears with rapture start!
CL.--Yes, thine eyes thy feeling shew.
CH.--This by what proof dost thou know?
CL.--The gods, that never would deceive,
Brought these tidings.
CH.--Dost believe
In the fickle shapes of dreams?
CL.--Nay; the dozings of the mind
Leave in me no trace behind.
CH.--Some wild rumour, then, meseems?
CL.--Dost thou think me but a child,
Thus and thus to be beguiled?
CH.--How long, then, is it since proud Ilion fell?
CL.--Since but the night that bore this morning’s light.
CH.--And who this message hither brought so well?
CL.--Hephæstus, sending forth his beacon bright
From Ida’s summit; then, from height to height
With blaze successive, beacon kindling beacon,
Bore us the tidings. Ida glanced it forth
To Lemnos, even to th’ Hermæan rock;
And next steep Athos, dear to Zeus, received
From Lemnos the bright flame, which, in its strength
Joyous, pursued its onward course, and flew
O’er the broad shoulders of Oceanus,
Giving its gleams all-golden, like the sun,
To those that on Makistos kept high watch.
Nor dallying he, nor won by ill-timed sleep,
Assumed his part of messenger; and far
Over Euripus speeds the signal flame,
Telling their tasks to the Messapian guards,
Who answered with a blaze that straightway lit
The heather on old Graia’s mountain-tops.
Then in full-gleaming strength, like a fair moon,
The beacon-light shot o’er Asopus plain,
And lit with answering fire Cithæron’s cliff,
Whose emulous watch made brighter still the blaze.
Thence darted on the fiery messenger
Over Gorgopis lake and up the sides
Of Ægiplanctus, whence (the waiting wards
Heaping no niggard pile), a beard-like flame
Streamed onward till it touched the cliff that spies
The billows of the blue Saronic sea;
But paused not in its course, until it reached
The heights of Arachnæum, over there.
And thence it strikes upon these palace-roofs,--
Far offspring of the light of fallen Troy.
PRIAM AND HELEN.
(_Iliad_ iii. 161.)
Priam, the King, to the tower where he sat called the beautiful Helen:
“Hither, my daughter, approach and sit by me here on this tower,
Whence thou mayest see the spouse of thy youth, thy friends
and thy kindred.
Thou knowest I never blamed thee; I blame the gods of Olympus,
Who excited this war of sorrows and tears without number.
Come, Helen, sit by my side, and tell me the name of yon hero,
Mighty and stately in mien. Though others around him are taller,
One of such beauty as his and of so majestic a bearing
I have never beheld. If he is not a king he is kingly.”
Then Helen, fairest of women, answered the King: “O my father,
Father of Paris, by me thou art loved and revered and respected!
Would that an evil death had been my lot when I followed
Hither thy son, Alexander, leaving my husband behind me,
Kinsmen, too, and sweet daughter, and friends that I knew
since my childhood!
’Twas not allowed me to die--so I pine away slowly with weeping.
But thou awaitest reply: thou seest the great Agamemnon,
Wide-ruling king, as thou saidst, and a warrior valiant and skilful;
Once he was a brother to me--oh, shame!--in the days that
have vanished!”
Then, as a hero a hero, the old man admired Agamemnon:
“Happy art thou, Atrides, in birth, and in name, and in fortune;
Many are under thy sway--the flower of the sons of Achæa.
Once into vine-bearing Phrygia I entered, and saw many Phrygians
Riding swift steeds, the forces of Otreus and Mygdon, the godlike,
Who, with me for an ally, encamped by the banks of the Sangar,
Waiting the march of their foes, the Amazons, warrior-women:
But few in number were they to those quick-eyed sons of Achæa.”
Next, perceiving Ulysses, the old man said, “My dear Helen,
Tell me who this is also--in stature less than Atrides,
Less by a head, it may be, but broader in chest and in shoulders.
Rest on the ground his arms; but he through the ranks of the army
Ranges about like a ram; to a thick-fleeced ram I compare him,
Wandering hither and thither through snow-white sheep in the pasture?”
Him then answered Helen--Helen of Jove descended:
“That is Ulysses, my father, the wily son of Laertes,
Nourished in Ithaca’s isle--Ithaca rocky and barren;
Skilled to contrive and complete wise plans and politic counsels.”
Her then the sage Antenor addressed, when she spake of Ulysses:
“Lady, in truth thou hast uttered these words; for once, I remember,
Hither the noble Ulysses came with the brave Menelaus,
(Thou wast the cause of his coming) and I was their host in my palace,
And of both the heroes I learned the genius and wisdom.
When they met in the Council, with Trojan heroes assembled,
Standing, Ulysses was less by a head than the brave Menelaus--
Sitting, more honour was due to the thoughtful brow of Ulysses.
And when they wove, for the general ear, their thoughts into language,
Menelaus harangued very freely and briefly, and clearly,
Never missing his words, nor misapplying their meaning,
Though, as to years, not yet was he reckoned among the elders.
But when Ulysses arose, with his head full of wariest measures,
Standing, he fixed his eyes on the ground, and kept looking downwards,
Moving his sceptre nor backwards nor forwards, but holding it firmly,
Looking like one not wise; and those who beheld him might fancy
That he was deeply enraged, and thus bereft of his reason.
But when, as I have seen, he sent his great voice from his bosom,
Words that came thick and fast, like the flakes of the snow in the winter,
Then he that listened would say, no man might compete with Ulysse;
Then we forgot how he looked as the words of Ulysses enchained us.”
Thirdly, on seeing Ajax, the old King of Helen demanded:
“Who, so stately and tall, is this other chief of the Grecians,
Rising as high o’er the rest as the height of his head and
broad shoulders?”
And thus the comely-robed Helen, the fairest of women, responded:
“He thou beholdest is Ajax, gigantic--to Grecians a bulwark!
And over there, like a god, Idomeneus stands ’mong the Cretans,
While around him the chiefs of the Cretan army are gathered.
Many a time has the brave Menelaus bidden him welcome,
When to our Spartan home he came from the land of the Cretans.
But while I see all around, the rest of the dark-eyed Achæeans,
Whom I well know, and whose names I could tell, two captains I see not--
Castor, tamer of steeds, and Pollux, skilful in boxing--
Both own brothers of mine: we three were nursed by one mother.
Either they have not come with the forces from far Lacedæmon,
Or having come, it may be, to this place, in sea-traversing vessels,
Do not desire, after all to enter the battle of heroes,
Fearing the shame and reproach the crime of their sister would
cause them.”
So she spake; but them the life-giving earth was embracing
In the dear land of their fathers over the sea, Lacedæmon!
SONG OF THE TROJAN CAPTIVE.
(_Euripidis Hecuba_, 905.)
I.
O my Ilion, once we named thee
City of unconquered men;
But the Grecian spear has tamed thee,
Thou canst never rise again.
Grecian clouds thy causeways darken;--
Ah! they cannot hide thy glory!
Ages hence shall heroes hearken
To the wonders of thy story.
II.
O my Ilion, they have shorn thee
Of thy lofty crown of towers!
Thy poor daughter can but mourn thee
In her lonely, captive hours.
They have robbed thee of thy beauty,
Made thee foul with smoke and gore;
Tears are now my only duty,
I shall tread thy streets no more.
III.
O my Ilion, I remember--
’Twas the hour of sweet repose,
And my husband in our chamber
Slept, nor dreamt of Grecian foes.
For the song and feast were over,
And the spear was hung to rest--
Never more, my hero-lover,
Aimed by thee at foeman’s breast.
IV.
O my Ilion, at the mirror
I was binding up my hair,
When my face grew pale with terror
At the cry that rent the air.
Hark! amid the din, the Grecian
Shout of triumph “Troy is taken;
Ten years’ work have now completion--
Ilion’s haughty towers are shaken!”
V.
O my Ilion, forth I hied me
From his happy home and mine;
Hapless, soon the Greeks descried me,
As I knelt at Phœbe’s shrine.
Then, my husband slain before me,
To the shore they hurried me,
And from all I loved they tore me
Fainting o’er the cruel sea.
BELLEROPHON.
(_Iliad_ vi. 152-195.)
In a far nook of steed-famed Argos, stand
The city Ephyra. Here Sisyphus,
The wily son of Æolus, was king.
His son was Glaucus, and to him was born
Bellerophon of honour without stain,
Gifted with every grace the gods bestow,
And manly spirit that won all men’s love.
Him Prœtus, who by Jove’s supreme consent
Held a harsh sceptre over Argolis,
Hated and doomed to exile or to death.
For fair Antea loved Bellerophon
With a mad passion, and, her royal spouse
Deceiving, told her longing to his guest.
But brave Bellerophon, as good as brave,
Set a pure heart against her evil words.
Then with false tongue she stood before the king:
“O Prœtus, die or slay Bellerophon,
Who sought her love, who only loveth thee.”
And anger seized the king at what he heard,
Yet was he loath to kill him, for the laws
That make the stranger sacred he revered.
But unto Lycia, bearing fatal signs,
And folded in a tablet, words of death,
He sent him, and enjoined him these to give
Unto Antea’s sire--his step-father,
Thinking that he would perish.
So he went,
Blameless, beneath the guidance of the gods,
And reached the eddying Xanthus. There the king
Of wide-extending Lycia honoured him
Nine days with feasting and with sacrifice.
But when the tenth rose-fingered morn had come,
He asked him for his message and the sign
Whate’er he bore from Prœtus,--which he gave.
And when he broke the evil-boding seal,
He first enjoined him the Chimæra dire
To slay,--of race divine and not of men,
In front a lion, dragon in the rear,
And goat between, whose breath was as the strength
Of fiercely blazing fire. And this he slew,
Trusting the portents of the gods. And next
He conquered the wild, far-famed Solymi,--
The hardest battle fought with mortal men.
The man-like Amazons he next subdued;
And as he journed homeward, fearing nought,
An ambuscade of Lycia’s bravest men,
Attacked him, but he slew them one by one,
And they returned no more.
And so the king
Seeing his race divine by noble deeds
Well proven, made the Lycian realm his home,
His beauteous daughter gave him for his wife,
And made him partner in his royal power.
And of the choicest land for corn and wine,
The Lycians gave him to possess and till.
HORACE.
(_Book_ i. _Ode_ xi.)
Seek not to know (for ’tis as wrong as vain)
What term of life to thee or me
The god may grant, Leuconoe,
Nor with Chaldean numbers vex thy brain.
But calmly take what comes of joy or pain,
Whether Jove grant us many winters more,
Or this complete our destiny
Which makes the stormy Tuscan sea
Weary its strength with angry shocks
Against the hollow-echoing rocks.
Be gently wise, my friend, and while you pour
The ruddy wine, live long by living well.
While we are speaking, hark! time’s envious knell!
Let us enjoy to-day, nor borrow
Vague grief by thinking of to-morrow.
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.
(_From_ VIRGIL--_Georgic_ IV. 457-527.)
The fair, young bride of Orpheus, as she fled
From Aristæus who designed her ill,
With hasty feet, along the river bank
Of Hebrus, found her death. For in her way
There lurked a baleful serpent ’mid the grass.
Full long the choir of Dryads mourned her fate,
And set the mountains wailing with their woe.
Pangæus answered back to Rhodope, and grief
Held all the land of Rhesus, dear to Mars;
And Hebrus, weeping, rolled to distant shores
The story of the dead Eurydice.
But Orpheus in his sorrow touched his harp,
And, sitting by the wild beach all alone,
Sang from the rising till the setting sun
Of his own sweet, lost wife Eurydice.
Till, drawing solace to his wounded love,
Through the fierce jaws of Tænarus he passed,
The gates of Hades, and the gloomy grove,
All thick with darkest horror, and, at last,
Entered the drear abodes where Pluto reigns
Among the dead--inexorable king.
And then he put his fingers to the strings
And sang of her he loved, Eurydice;
And made such sweet, enchanting melody
That all the ghosts of Erebus were charmed,
And hied from all recesses at the sound;
Gathering around him, many as the birds
That hide themselves by thousands ’mid the leaves
Of some sweet-smelling grove, when eventide
Or wintry shower calls them from the hills.
The shades of mothers, sires and mighty men,
Of maids for whom the torch was never lit,
And boys whose pyres their parents’ eyes had seen,
Listened, enchained, and for a while forgot
The slimy weeds that grew upon the banks,
Of black Cocytus, and the hateful Styx,
Whose nine slow streams shut out the happy world.
And even Tartarus, Death’s deepest home,
Was stricken with amazement; and the rage
Of snake-tressed Furies ceased; and Cerberus
Restrained his triple roar, and hellish blasts
Forbore a while to turn Ixion’s wheel.
And now, all danger past, to upper air
He turned his eager feet, Eurydice
Restored, near-following (for Proserpine
Had so enjoined), when Orpheus, mad with joy
And longing to behold her face once more,
Paused and looked back, unmindful. Fatal look,
That robbed him of his treasure on the verge
Of full fruition in the world’s broad light!
No hope of mercy; Hell no mercy knows
For broken law. This Orpheus learned too late,
When triple thunder bellowed through the deeps
Of dark Avernus.
Then Eurydice:
“What frenzy, Orpheus, has possessed thy soul
To ruin thee and me, ah! wretched me,
Whom now the Fates call back to Hades’ gloom!
Alas! the sleep of death is on my eyes.
Farewell, my Orpheus! darkness hems me round--
Farewell! in vain I stretch weak hands to thee--
Thine, thine no more! Farewell! Farewell!”
She said,
And vanished from his sight away, as smoke
Fades into viewless air, nor saw she more
Her Orpheus.
He in vain the fleeting shade
Sought to restrain with outspread hands; in vain
Essayed to speak, dumb-stricken with surprise;
In vain, to cross the gloomy Stygian wave.
Alas! what could he do, or whither go,
Since she was gone, the sum of all his joy?
Or, with what tears, what plaintive, moving words,
Seek respite from the gods that rule below
For her who, shivering, crossed the darksome stream?
So passed she from him; and, for seven long months
Beneath a rock by Strymon’s lonely flood
He wailed her fate and his, till all the caves
Re-echoed mournfully, and savage beasts,
Assuaged, knew milder breasts, and strength of oaks
Was captive led by magic of his song.
Even as, in woods, beneath a poplar’s shade
Lone Philomel laments her callow brood,
Robbed from the nest by cruel, churlish hands;
And she, poor childless mother, all night long,
Perched on a branch, renews the doleful strain,
And with her plaints makes all the grove resound;
So Orpheus mourned Eurydice, nor dreamed
Of other love, nor other nuptial tie.
Alone, ’mid Boreal ice, and by the banks
Of snow-girt Tanais, and through the plains
That feel the chill breath of Niphæan hills,
He sang the loss of sweet Eurydice
And Pluto’s bootless gift. And even when
The Thracian maidens maddened at the slight
Of their own beauty in such lasting grief
And wild from Bacchic orgies, slew the bard,
Strewing the broad fields with his severed limbs;
Then, even then, when Hebrus bore away
The tuneful head torn from the marble neck,
The cold lips, faithful still to their lost love,
Murmured, “Eurydice! Eurydice!”
And the sad banks replied “Eurydice!”
ADRIAN’S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL.
(_From Catullus._)
Animula! vagula, blandula,
Hospes, comesque corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in loca,
Pallidula rigida, nudula
Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos?
The same rendered into English:
VERSION I.
Darling, gentle, wandering soul,
Long this body’s friend and guest,
Tell what region is thy goal,
Pale and cold and all undrest,
Lost thy wonted play and jest?
VERSION II.
Spirit! sweet, gentle thing,
Thou seemest taking wing
For some new place of rest;
So long this body’s guest
And friend, dost thou forsake it,
And pallid, cold, and naked,
Thou wanderest,
Bereft of joy and jest,
Whither, ethereal thing?
VERSION III.
Dear, pretty, fluttering, vital thing,
So long this body’s guest and friend,
Ah! tell me, whither dost thou wend
Thy lonely way,
Pallid and nude and shivering,
Nor, as thy wont is, gently gay?
PYRAMUS AND THISBE.
(_From Ovid’s “Metamorphoses.”_)
Fairest of many youths was Pyramus,
And Thisbe beauteous among Eastern maids.
These dwelt in neighbour houses, where, of old,
Semiramis girt Babylon with walls.
And, being neighbours, these two fell in love,
And love with time grew stronger. They had wed,
But that their parents willed it not, and so
Forbade all intercourse. With mutual breasts,
Each sighed for other. Parted thus, they spoke
By signs, and, being hindered, loved the more.
There was an opening in the common wall
That made their houses two, long unobserved,
But (what does not love see?) by them discerned.
Of this they made a passage for the voice,
And, safe from notice, murmured loving words.
As oftentimes they stood, the wall between,
Whispering and catching soft replies in turn,
“O envious wall, that standest in our way,
Who love each other!” they would, vexed, exclaim,
“If thou would’st let us meet full face to face,
Or e’en enough to touch each other’s lips!
And yet we are not thankless; ’tis to thee
We owe this pleasure of exchanging words.”
Thus oft conversing, at approach of night,
They said “farewell,” and kissed with longing lips,
That never met, the wall that stood between;
And when Aurora quenched the fires of night,
And Phœbus dried the dew upon the grass,
They came again unto the trysting place.
Once, having come and many plaints exchanged
Of their sad lot, they each with each agreed
To leave their homes, and in the silent night
Baffling their guardians, through the quiet streets,
Pass to the fields, and meet at Ninus’ tomb.
There stood a tree with snow-white fruit adorned--
A lofty mulberry--a cool fount close by;
This was to be their trysting-place.
That day
Was slow to vanish in the western sea.
Then in the darkness Thisbe issued forth,
With stealthy footsteps, and with close-veiled face.
She reached the tomb, and ’neath the trysting-tree
Sat down (love made her confident); when, lo!
A lioness, her mouth all froth and blood,
From recent slaughter, came to quench her thirst
At the near fountain.
Thisbe saw her come,
(For the moon shone) and fled with frightened feet
Into a cave, and, running, dropt her veil;
Which, having quenched her thirst, the lioness,
Returning, found, and tore with bloody mouth.
Just then, came Pyramus with later feet,
Who saw the lion’s tracks deep in the soil,
And paled with sudden fear. But when he found
His Thisbe’s garment stained with blood, he cried,
“One fatal night two lovers shall destroy,
Of whom she was the worthier of life!
My soul is guilty, O dear perished love,
Who bade thee come at night to scenes of dread,
And let thee come the first. O lions! rush
From where you have your dens beneath the rock,
And tear these cursed limbs with ruthless teeth!
But--’tis a coward’s part to wish for death.”
Then with the veil he seeks the trysting-tree,
And to its cherished folds gives kisses, tears,
And to his sword, “Drink now my blood,” he cries,
And sinks it in his heart, and draws it forth,
And falling, lies at length with upturned face.
The blood spurts forth, as when a pipe that’s burst
Throws from the hissing gap a slender jet,
Beating the obstant air with watery blows.
The trysting-tree is sprinkled with his blood,
Till its fair fruit is changed to gloomy black.
Then Thisbe, half afraid e’en yet, returns,
Lest Pyramus should miss her. Eagerly,
With eyes and heart, she looks for her beloved,
Burning to tell him of the danger past.
But when she gained the place and saw the tree
Sadly discoloured, she was sore in doubt
Whether or no it was the very spot;
Till, all aghast, she saw the blood-stained ground
And quivering limbs, and started, horror-struck,
Trembling as does the sea beneath a breeze.
And when she recognized her dear one’s face,
She threw her tender arms above her head,
And tore her hair, and the dear form embraced,
Filling the wound with tears, and with her lips
Touched the cold face, and called him by his name;
“Pyramus, answer, thine own Thisbe calls!
Oh! hear me, Pyramus, look up once more!”
Touched by the voice, he oped his dying eyes,
Then closed them on the world for evermore.
She now saw all--her veil--the empty sheath.
“Ah! hapless love,” she said, “hath slain my love,
But love will make me strong like him to die,
Fearing no wounds; for I will follow him,
The wretched cause--his comrade, too, in death:
And death that parted us shall re-unite.
O wretched parents of a wretched pair,
Whom true love bound together to the last,
Hear this, my dying voice, and not refuse
To let our ashes mingle in one urn.
O trysting-tree, whose funeral branches shade
The corse of one, and soon shall wave o’er two,
Henceforth forever be our mark of fate,--
Bear in thy fruit the memory of our death!”
She spake these words, and fell upon the sword,
And the point entered deep within her breast.
His blood, yet warm, was mingled with her own.
Her dying prayer the gods in heaven heard,
Her dying prayer touched the lone parents’ hearts,
And both their ashes mingle in one urn.
THE WITHERED LEAF.
(_From the French of A. V. Arnault._)
“De ta tige détachée.”